Igor Yaklovev was ambitious. He lived for power, intrigue. He did not question his need. He had a few theories about why this was so, but he didn’t waste his time thinking about his father’s fall from grace in the Party and his eventual suicide. His father had been weak. His father had not planned, as his son was doing. His father did not gather evidence and secrets that could have not only kept him in his position but allowed him to move up and keep his family in comfort and prestige. So, perhaps the lesson of his father’s failure had been a factor in the decision of Igor Yaklovev to become what he had become.
Igor had a brother and a sister. The brother was a low-level postal worker who had inherited the low intelligence of their mother. His sister was married to a relatively successful owner of a children’s clothing store near the Kremlin. She had two children. Both were probably grown by now. Igor never saw or talked to his siblings, though his sister lived no more than five miles from the Yak’s apartment. Their mother had died ten years earlier. He had not attended the funeral.
The papers were in five piles laid out neatly before him, three relating to current investigations and two relating to past investigations that had yielded information Yaklovev was deciding how to use.
A small blue stick-em note was pressed onto the document at the top of each pile.
The stick-em on pile one read: “Mikhail Stoltz. What is the secret of Mir?”
The stick-em on pile two read: “More than gratitude to be gained from duma for saving Tolstoy film?”
The stick-em on pile three read: “Who supports psychic research center? Is there a secret? Why the high priority to solving the murder of the scientist quickly?”
The other two piles carried only single names. The people named were powerful. Others would call what Yaklovev was going to do blackmail, but if nothing was openly said and no overt pressure took place, it was simply a matter of one person doing a favor for another whom he respects or who has done him a favor. One of the piles was urgent. The man named on the stick-em was quickly drinking himself to death and his chances of eventually succeeding Putin were all but gone. Igor had a great investment of his time in this well-meaning alcoholic. He had tapes, documents that demanded favors, but what good were obligations and favors if the man was dead? Still, if Igor Yaklovev moved quickly, there was possibly still something to be gained from him.
He sat back, looked at the five piles with satisfaction, and considered when he would make his move. This was his favorite time of each day. Coffee within reach, papers and files before him to be studied, considered, manipulated. He was satisfied for now serving as director of the Office of Special Investigation. Rostnikov was the ideal partner to serve Yaklovev’s needs. Rostnikov was interested in solving crimes. In the process, he fed Yaklovev golden data. It was a perfect relationship, and Yaklovev showed his appreciation of his chief investigator by giving Rostnikov what he needed and providing protection for Rostnikov or his people when they were in trouble. Yaklovev was loyal to those who worked for and with him. He had never betrayed those who worked in his KGB unit and he would never betray his present investigators, but in a year or two, possibly three at the most, he would humbly accept a major promotion, possibly even to Minister of the Interior. He would see to it that Rostnikov and the others were in good hands. He wanted to leave no enemies behind him. He did not want to be liked. He wanted to be respected. Had his father learned this lesson … but that was in the past. The present and future lay before him in neat piles.
He finished his coffee, cleaned the cup and dried it, and then went back to gather the papers. They were all copies. The original documents and reports were well hidden in a well-protected, large steel safe-deposit box in a bank in Korov.
The director of the bank owed Igor Yaklovev a very large favor. The director owed Yaklovev his very life. He had learned that paranoia was essential to his survival. Still, these piles had to be returned to the wall safe in the bedroom. While there were ways of getting into the safe in the apartment other than by using the proper combination, there was no way someone could get into the safe without leaving clear signs that a theft or even attempted theft had taken place. Igor had been a KGB field director for fourteen years.
A fleeting, pleasant memory of his wife almost came to life, but, as was usually the case, it faded before it could take shape.
He had much to do.
When the papers had been tucked away in the large safe, Igor Yaklovev looked out the bedroom window at the sky. It might rain. He could always hail a cab on the way to Petrovka. He hoped the rain would hold off for an hour or so. He had much to think about. He would prefer the long walk.
Chapter Eleven
Yuri Kriskov had readily agreed to stay in his home and be guarded for as long as was necessary. But the two policemen, he decided, were too young and did not appear particularly interested, except for the younger of the two, who was definitely interested in Vera.
Therefore, the night before, Yuri had made a decision and a phone call. A little after midnight, four burly men heavily armed with automatic weapons had appeared at the door. The confrontation with the two young policemen was brief and surly. The policemen had called their chief at Petrovka, who said he didn’t give a shit about Kriskov. If he wanted to pay bodyguards, let him. He ordered the two young policemen to end their vigil. The two policemen departed.
The four armed men wore uniforms complete with badges and stripes on their arms. The uniforms were decidedly more expensive and official-looking than those of the police. The bodyguards quickly and politely checked the house and the view from each window as soon as dawn broke.
In Russia there are forty-five hundred security firms, or krysha, “roofs,” with seventy thousand legally armed and very well paid operatives, many of them former police, KGB, and soldiers. These private armies, which protect businesses, banks, and wealthy individuals who have reason to believe their lives may be in danger, outnumber the police.
After several years with one of these security firms, hundreds of bodyguards leave to join the enemy, Mafias and bandit groups, which pay even better. The security guards are quickly replaced by policemen, who defect for the reality of hard cash.
“Is this really necessary? Do we really need these men in the house with guns?” Vera said softly in the kitchen to her husband.
Yuri had not ceased smoking and looking over his shoulder.
“They are better than the police,” he said. “The police didn’t tell me to cover the windows. The police didn’t tell me to stay away from windows. The police didn’t patrol the house and go down the streets and behind the other houses and knock at doors to ask questions. Let the police concentrate on finding this lunatic and my negative. This army will protect me till then.”
“They will frighten the children,” Vera said.
“The children are at school.”
“What if this madman kidnaps our children?” she asked.
“What has that to do with these men’ guarding me? And why would he do that? Why would he take the children? Tell me. Why would he do something like that?”
“To get you to give him the money,” she said.
“I have no money to give him,” he answered between clenched teeth.
“You have enough to pay a private army. But you wouldn’t have enough to save the lives of your children.”